


Santa Baby

by aohatsu



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Christmas, Lifetime Movies, M/M, Marriage, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David, simply put, has to find a Mrs. Claus before Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckgirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/gifts).



> Beta'd by RAJKUMARI905 and DOCTOR JEHANE. Thank you so much, guys! You're truly life savers. DUCKGIRLIE, I hope you like it! :) Although upon re-reading the e-mail telling me what you want, I realized you said up _to_ PG-15. *headdesk*

He has four siblings—three sisters and a little brother, but that doesn’t really matter, as much as he’d asked his father to reconsider. Claudia is even already married, and Daniel has had a girlfriend for three years—he’s probably going to tell her everything soon. David is one-hundred-and-twenty-four, and he’s only been on a few dates in his entire  _life_. And yet he’s the one Father is insisting take up the, um, the family job. The one that requires you have a wife.  
  
It was Thanksgiving last weekend, and that gives him a month to find a wife, be promoted, and take over everything in the factory, and check the list  _twice_ , and—and  _take over everything_ , and—there’s no way that David can become Santa Claus in just a month. It’s crazy, crazy, crazy—  
  
“Yeah, but you’ve got four helpers here. Plus Brooke and all the elves, David, come on. Dad’s not going to make it this year and you know it,” Daniel says, dropping himself into a pile of wrapped boxes, sending a pile of green and red sparkles into the air. He gives the sparkles a glare as they keep floating down on top of him, but doesn’t move.  
  
David knows that, anyway, and he knows he has no choice in the matter. He just has no idea how he’s going to do it all. It’s kind of ridiculous to expect that he could be in love with someone after four weeks of knowing them, and to get them to marry you, even. And that's even supposing he can find someone who's interested in the same things as he is, and who might, well. Be good in bed with him, because that's important if you're going to be married to someone for hundreds of years. And mostly he has no idea how to go about finding a wife, because, um, how do you just find a wife? It’s not like they come wrapped in red and green paper with a purple bow on top.  
  
“Brooke,” David says, stepping in the sleigh, the cheerful blond sliding in behind him. The reindeer start to move, standing up and stretching their necks, eager to start running, to take off and push into the sky. David would much rather stay on the ground, his snow boots actually in the snow, rather than huddled underneath the six blankets his mom is already covering him and Brooke with as they sit down in the sleigh. (“Don’t need you to start your search by finding a cold, sweetie,“ she says, smiling, but it’s more to herself than to David.) He’s used to setting his dad up for the trip on Christmas, so he thinks he’ll be fine.  
  
“I’m just going to help you settle in,” Brooke assures him when he asks her why she’s coming along, and before David can figure out what exactly she means—his apartment is fully furnished (and decorated!), right? He doesn’t have time to go _shopping_  too—his mom pulls his head down to give him a kiss on the cheek and then he’s gripping the reigns and calling loudly out to the reindeer. They push at the snow-covered ground and the sleigh starts moving underneath David, slowly at first until Brooke is pulling the blanket up to cover her face and they’re barreling down the long icy slope. When they reach the end, a sharp drop makes Brooke scream through the blanket and David has to yell and pull the blanket down off her face before she realizes they’re flying.  
  
“Are you okay?” David asks when she finally looks at him, her eyes wide.  
  
“I’ve never actually been in the sleigh while it’s flying,” she says, and looks over the edge in awe. The reindeer are kicking their legs smoothly; their necks elongated and pushed forward in the direction they’re flying in.   
  
David smiles and then laughs when a loud sound comes out of the old speaker hooked up to the back of the sleigh—Christmas music, of course. When Brooke settles down a few minutes later, they sing carols over the sound of the wind as the reindeer carry them towards their destination: Los Angeles, California.  
  
He probably should have been listening better when the elves were suggesting places to start the search, but he’d been a little preoccupied helping his dad with the list, because the naughty kids with last names starting with  _C_  got shuffled in with the nice list, somehow. Anyway—it shouldn’t be that hard to find, um, a wife or whatever in Los Angeles, should it?  
  
  
  
The apartment is a one-room studio with peeling paint and questionable stains on the carpet, but there’s a refrigerator and a table and a couch that sort of pops out of the wall and becomes a bed, so it’s livable, and everything. Brooke sits hesitantly on the couch, and says, “David, this is—it’s only for a month.”  
  
David nods, and puts his sack down next to a somewhat broken dresser. “It's fine, Brooke. I just have to fix it up a little.” He closes his eyes and breathes carefully, before softly murmuring the words to  _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_. He hears Brooke join in after the words get louder, and he can hear scraping around the room, and feel movement all around him until he sings the last words, and finishes humming the tune. When he opens his eyes, the apartment is brightly lit with Christmas decorations—holly is hanging around the doors and windows, and the bed has a warm, thick comforter with white pillows to match. The small kitchen area is clean again, without any rust in sight, and the table pushed into the corner is covered with a cotton slip of fabric, and has a centerpiece of red poinsettias. And of course—there’s a Christmas tree in the middle of the room, emitting the smell of pine and shining from the many multi-colored lights and tinsel.   
  
“It’s amazing!” Brooke says, falling back on the bed with a smile. She sits up abruptly, looking at her watch, and she says, “Oh no, we’re going to be late!”  
  
“Late for what?” David asks, looking at her.  
  
"There's some sort of party going on down the street, Jason told me about it before we left. I thought it'd be the best place to start!" David sort of feels like they're going hunting for Christmas dinner, which really just can't be a good start  _at all_.  
  
  
  
The ‘party’ is actually, like, um, not a party. He has to show his I.D. to get in, which actually isn’t that surprisingly even though he’s one-hundred-and-twenty-four, because, well, he stopped aging kind of early and still looks, er, young enough to be carded at bars. Dang it. Not that he goes to bars! He actually avoids them because he doesn’t drink and that kind crowd tends to be really rowdy and, um, alarming, and he just avoids bars as a general rule.  
  
He and Brooke push themselves into a booth by a window and David stares out of it, wishing it was snowing. Snow always puts him in a better mood. There’s just something  _hopeful_  about everything when there’s snow outside.   
  
“Right, what can I get you?” a woman says, smiling at them even though she doesn’t look like she works there at all, leather pants and red vest and tattoos running all up her arm.   
  
“Do you like Christmas?” Brooke blurts out before David can so much as duck and hide under the table.  
  
The woman snorts out a laugh and cocks her hip, and looks pointedly around the bar. There are a few lights twinkling along the walls and a couple of plastic looking pieces of holly hanging from the ceiling, and a small, plastic Christmas tree set up on the small stage near the front where David imagines a band will be playing later on. “I like it well enough, I guess. What do you want to drink? We’ve got a big crowd tonight so I’m in a bit of a hurry.”  
  
“Just eggnog, please,” David mutters, looking down, and Brooke agrees. The woman gives them a look but says, “Alright, two eggnogs. I can do that.”  
  
Brooke hovers and they have three more embarrassing moments with pretty girls who all have Christmas (or at least red) sweaters on (and he suggests Brooke let him do it but she argues that he won’t and that’s... true, so she wins the argument and he has to sit back down because  _dang it_ ) before the lights in the bar dim, and dark outlines of people walk onto the stage.   
  
The people around them—some sitting in booths like his and Brooke’s, or tables, but most of them standing up—give out loud cheers and yells, and David gets the distinct impression that this band must be known at this bar. They must perform here pretty often then, which means they must be good. David’s weakness is good music, so he turns in his seat and looks at the stage, almost wanting to stand up to get a better view.   
  
When the lights do come on, there’s smoke filling the stage and a man with a guitar slung around his waist at the microphone, holding it close to his mouth, and then he starts to sing, and David couldn’t care less about any of the women who walk by their booth, Brooke tugging on his arm. It’s not good—it’s  _amazing_.  
  
It’s this soulful rock sound, and he finds himself trying to mouth the lyrics even though he doesn’t know what they are. The rest of the bar is singing with them though, throwing their beers in the air like they know the song by heart, happily. The song ends on a loud note from the pierced guitarist, and the guy at the microphone laughs and says, “What the fuck is Carly serving us now,  _eggnog_ —“ before the woman from before, behind the bar now, yells, “Shut your mouth and keep singing, Dave, or I’ll kick you off that stage!”  
  
He snickers into the microphone and then he starts up another song. Brooke huffs and says, “They should be playing Christmas music so close to December!” but it’s too quiet underneath the other noises of the bar for David to really hear.   
  
And besides, David finds that he doesn’t really care whether it’s Christmas music or not.  
  
  
  
Brooke sends him to a place called Twenty Minutes the next day. It’s not horrible, really—you sit at a table for three minutes, talking to a girl, and then you move to the next table and do it again. It’s just, awkward, basically.  
  
“Do you like Christmas?” is the first thing he asks, because it’s the main requirement. And then, “Do you like music?” because that’s a, um, personal requirement. And this is going to be his  _wife_  for the next six-hundred-ish years, so he should probably be allowed to set his own requirements, right?  
  
He shuffles on to the next table with a sigh.  
  
“That’s encouraging,” the girl says, sitting down with a big grin. David stumbles into his chair and says, “Oh my Gosh, no, it’s just, I feel like I’m shopping for a wife or something, and—“  
  
She starts laughing, and nods, “Yeah, no, I totally get what you mean. I’m Demi, by the way. Nice to meet you.”  
  
David says, blinking. “Do you like Christmas?”  
  
By the end of the session, he's got Demi's number (as well as numbers of three other girls), and he stuffs them into his pocket on the walk back to the apartment. David falls down on the couch, face planting into the picture of the Christmas tree sewn into the otherwise red throw pillow. He just needs a nap, is all.   
  
Which is obviously the reason he decides to go back to the bar. It’s just, they had really good eggnog, and maybe the same band will be playing? And they were so  _good_ , it’s, he can’t just not go see a band when he knows how good they are! Brooke went back to the North Pole last night, wishing him good luck and saying she’d be back to pick him in a month—the week before Christmas Eve, and he should definitely have a wife by then—so when he walks in, the night air surprisingly chilly, he’s alone.   
  
It’s not quite as crowded as it was the night before, but he decides not to take up an entire booth to himself for the sake of the other customers and climbs up onto a stool at the actual bar. The lady from the night before looks up and grins at him. She finishes talking another man and then slides over and says, “Hey, you were here yesterday. Dare I say I have a new regular?”  
  
David smiles and says, “Um, for as long as you have that eggnog, definitely.”  
  
She laughs and turns around and grabs him a glass of said eggnog, and is about to leave when David says, “Oh, um—“  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“The band that played last night, are they, I mean, playing again?”  
  
Her smile gets even bigger and she shakes her head, “Not tonight, but they play here pretty often. Dave—the vocalist? He’s my fiancé’s best friend. Means I can’t get rid of him. He’s probably around here somewhere, if you wanted to tell him you liked the music though. They were fooling around with stereo earlier.”  
  
The bar’s stereo is playing  _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ , so David smiles happily into his eggnog.   
  
He sits at the bar and watches the crowd for a little while. There’s a man holding on tight to a woman in the corner, and David instinctively knows that he bought her a ring for Christmas. It’s settled in his back pocket right now just in case a good moment comes up—because all he wants for Christmas is her.   
  
That’s the kind of thing David loves the most about Christmas, because as great as toys and presents and things are, the real magic of Christmas is the feelings you get from it; the warm ones, love and happiness and comfort. You can’t buy those things and so they’re the best presents you can give.  
  
He sighs again and sinks down a little, until his head is settled on his arms, folded on the bar. How is he supposed to force those sorts of feelings? In a  _month_?  
  
It’s kind of horrible timing when somebody sits next to him and says, “Carly, beer—yeah, yeah, I’ll pay for it,” and then elbows David. “Hey, man, what’re you so down about?”  
  
It’s horrible timing because David doesn’t think before he answers, “I need a wife.”  
  
The guy snorts so loudly that David sits up straighter, raising a hand in case he needs to clap him on the back or something. But he settles down after a second and laughs clearer, and David recognizes him at the exact same time that he says, “Maybe you should start with a date, huh?”  
  
“Oh, I—yeah, oh my gosh, are you Dave?”  
  
He looks at David a bit more curiously now and asks, “Yes?”  
  
“I saw you play yesterday! You were  _really_  good!” David says, excitedly, and he almost knocks over his eggnog while jerking his arms up to demonstrate  _how good_ , except Dave reaches over and catches it.   
  
“Oh, sorry,” David says.   
  
Dave shakes his head, “Nah, its cool. Always nice to hear somebody likes our music enough to spill their drinks.”  
  
“I actually came back tonight because I thought maybe you’d be singing again,” David blurts, and his neck is probably going to start heating up soon, and turn all red, but right now he’s too excited to care that he’s being totally lame and ridiculous.  
  
Someone else jumps in-between them right then, yelling at the bar lady—um, Carly?—“Oi, I need a drink!”  
  
“Get behind the counter and grab your own, asshole,” she says, swinging by them with some sort of alcohol container in her hands. She looks at David and Dave and says, “I see you've met!”  
  
“What?” Dave says, and then the guy between them adds, “But it tastes better if it’s been poured by the love of my life.”  
  
“What’s your name anyway?” Dave asks suddenly. David jumps, and says, “David Cl—um, David Archuleta.” He winces at the slip and grabs his eggnog, taking a too-big gulp of it.  
  
“It tastes even better than that if you put in all the hard work yourself,” Carly says, and then looks at David.  
  
“Your name is David? Why the hell are there so many Davids in this bar? Cook, Hernandez, Hodges, that ex of mine—shut it, Michael.”  
  
“We need a nickname then,” whoever the new guy is, Michael, apparently, says. “Dave here can be Cook, since that’s what most of us call him anyway, ‘cause the bastard’s always in trouble.”  
  
“Um,” David says, but Dave—Cook?—shakes his head.  
“Archuleta’s too long.”  
  
“Archie,” Cook says, rolling his eyes. He looks at David and says, “It’s the best you’re going to get.”  
  
“Okay,” David says, slowly.  
  
Cook laughs again and says, “So much for having a fan. Run for hills, kid.” Before David can say  _I’m totally still a fan!_  or  _Um, actually, I’m older than you,_  Cook is grabbing Michael and pulling him off through the bar, saying something about fixing the stereo again.  
  
  
  
Overall, David doesn’t like living alone. Daniel took off from the North Pole in his thirties—he lives in Florida, and only comes home during the busy seasons. But David never moved away, at least, not for very long. He prefers being at home, with his family, and the elves, and everything  _Christmas_  all the time. But there’s definitely one thing that’s really good about having your own apartment.  
  
There’s some sort of a soft rock station playing quietly in the corner, and the Christmas tree’s ornaments glimmer and shine off different surfaces throughout the room, while a tiny sliver of light is pushing its way through the bottom of the window where the blinds don’t completely cover. He’s pushed the sheets down to the end of the bed, and his boxers are piled on the floor, even though the rest of his clothes are in the hamper.   
  
A barely audible whine makes its way out of his mouth, lips parted because it’s becoming hard to breathe. His fingers slide slowly over the top of his dick, before he brings his whole hand back down, gripping hard. His leg is propped up, bent at the knee, and he leans his head back as a drop of sweat slides down the bottom half of his thigh, making it obvious how hot he is, and how long he’s been wrapping his hand around himself. It’s just—it feels  _good_ , and the slide of his fingernail against the tip makes him breathe harder, faster, even though it’s him, his hands, and he knows what’s coming.   
  
“Oh,” he says, to himself, and then bites his lip because even though he’s alone, it’s still almost embarrassing to say anything out loud. His heart is pushing harshly in his chest, and he speeds up his fist, almost unable to hold back a cry when his hips raise up off the bed of their own accord, and oh gosh, oh gosh, that’s, and he can’t stop, it feels  _so good_.   
  
He falls back on the bed, with heavy, painful breaths as he finishes out the last of it, thighs trembling against the sheet covering the mattress, hot and sweaty. His hairline is even damp, he realizes afterward, but he stays still for a long time, too exhausted to move.  
  
Yeah, there are some advantages to living alone.  
  
  
  
His date with Lauren backfires when it turns out she’s allergic to dairy, and his date with Selena is nice except he spends most of the night convincing her to give her ex-boyfriend another chance because she’s obviously still in love with him. His date with Demi is in an hour, and he’s really hoping it goes better than the other ones, because—  
  
Well, because he’s not sure what to do if it doesn’t.  
  
They’re supposed to meet at a nice Italian restaurant, and David walks down the street slowly, with his hands in his pockets. It’s chilly, but there’s no snow. He sighs again, because it’s officially December now, and there should definitely be snow on the ground. It’s just—it’s  _Christmas_  time, there should be gingerbread and presents and tinsel floating everywhere and  _snow_ and—he misses the North Pole.  
  
“Hi,” someone says suddenly from behind him, her voice small and matching the soft tug on his pants. He stops and turns around, where a little girl with bright, red hair is looking up at him with green eyes.   
  
“Hi,” David says back, and bends at the knees to be closer to her height.  
  
“I’ve been a really good girl this year,” she says, smiling, and it’s as a woman with the same hair runs up that she adds, “I want a Barbie doll house and a turtle-shaped swimming pool for Christmas.”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, and David shakes his head, grinning despite the fact that she’s asking for a  _swimming pool_ for Christmas.   
  
David looks back at the little girl and asks her, “A swimming pool, Jenna?”  
  
“Mmhmm!” she nods enthusiastically.  
  
“I promise so long as you’re good, you’ll have a great Christmas, okay?” he says, grinning with a promise. He’s happy: even without the red suit, children know the Claus family when they see them. He kind of wants to shout  _Christmas lives!_  in front of everyone walking down the street, except, no, that would be really embarrassing.   
  
“Thank you!” Jenna yells, and then turns around and lets her mom grab her hand.   
  
David stands back up and smiles at the bewildered mother, who just shakes her head and thanks him.  
  
“That was really weird, man.”  
  
David swings around so fast he almost trips, and Cook steps forward like he’s going to try and catch him or something, but the little girl at Cook's side runs forward first and pushes him back away from the street. David manages to get his balance back and not fall on her  _or_  on the concrete, thankfully.  
  
“Oh my Gosh,” he starts, putting a hand to his heart. He looks at the little girl—short and blonde with pearly white teeth and what looks like ice-skates hanging off her shoulder, the blades covered with pink rubber so that they can’t cut anything accidentally. Her name is Gracie, David thinks—and she asked for—oh.  
  
David can do lots of things with his Christmas magic, but that’s not one of them.  
  
He smiles sadly down at her and says, “Thanks.”  
  
She blushes shyly and scoots back so that she’s next to Cook’s leg, gripping his arm tightly.   
  
“What?” Cook says, looking at her. “You’re the one who asked if we could say hi, so say hi.”  
  
When she just buries her face into Cook’s t-shirt, Cook rolls his eyes. “Archie, meet Gracie. Gracie, meet Archie.” He looks at David and adds, “Gracie’s my niece. I’ve got her  _all afternoon_  and unfortunately I lost a bet involving a rainbow-colored pony, thus, ice skating.”  
  
Gracie says something into Cook’s shirt, and he tugs on her arm until she comes away and has to repeat, “Can he come with us?”  
  
David is about to interrupt and say he has a date, actually, that he should probably be going to, and they don’t actually want him to join them anyway—he met Cook for like five minutes last week and made a total dork out of himself, so. Except Cook looks back up at him and says, “What do you say, Archie? Can you skate?”  
  
He’ll probably feel guilty later on when he realizes he forgot all about Demi in the space of two seconds.  
  
  
  
The ice skating arena isn’t an outside rink, which David understands because it’d probably melt or something. It’s a big building that they walk to, because it’s surprisingly close to where they were. Gracie manages to sneak in a request for the _My Little Pony_  DVD Collection on the walk there, and Cook gives David a look that means  _it’s already under the tree_. Cook keeps holding Gracie’s hand until they’re at the double door entrance of the building, when she escapes to run up to the counter and say, “I want the licorice.”  
  
“Gracie,” Cook calls, and then shakes his head. “She thinks I own a money tree.”  
  
David laughs because Cook lets her get it anyway, and then tries paying for David’s skates too—or well, he does, because he refuses to let David pay, okay, and it’s around this time that it suddenly occurs to David to wonder if this is a  _date_. Except then Gracie grabs Cook’s hand and drags him over to a bench to struggle with putting on her skates, and no—Cook didn’t even ask him, that was Gracie, because she could tell he was a Claus, and Cook is obviously just, um, wrapped around her finger.   
  
Not that that’s a bad thing. Liking kids is totally a requirement. And, um, well, David likes it.   
  
“Come on, Archie,” Cook says, and then David sits down and starts putting on his skates. They’re bulky and bright orange, but he’s used to skating because they do it all the time at home, and he wobbles his way over to the ice before sliding in and skating a small circle, coming back to wait at the entrance for Cook and Gracie.  
  
Gracie is watching him with big eyes and comes out onto the ice slowly, one of the metal skate-helpers in her hands so that she can actually skate on her own.   
  
“You like ice skating?” David asks her, and she nods, pushing forward slowly.   
  
“Watch, I can do a figure eight,” she says.   
  
Cook comes up behind them, not quite on the ice just yet—looking like he might lose his balance even without being on it—and says, “I’ll watch from here.”  
  
Gracie moves to start skating, and David looks at Cook while slowly skating back and forth across the entrance. The other skaters weave around him, and he smiles at them when they pass by. Gracie slowly makes her way through a figure eight in the center of the ice and comes back to them, her cheeks red from the cold already but she’s smiling happily. “See, Uncle David, I did a figure eight!”  
  
“Yeah, I saw. You were amazing; you should totally go do that again.”  
  
She seems to realize the deflection though and grabs at her uncle’s arm. “Come on, you have to come with me. We can stay close to the wall.”  
  
Cook grimaces but gives in to his niece and takes a slippery step out onto the ice, hanging onto the wall for dear life. David almost wants to laugh, except that would be really mean, so he doesn’t. He does skate up close though, and around so that he’s in front of Cook, skating very slowly backwards. Cook glares at him and says, “Show-off.”  
  
David waves his arms, and says, “No! I don’t—we skate, like, all the time, back at home? So I know how to, um. But that’s not the point! I can help you learn?” He looks at Gracie, who’s hanging onto Cook’s hand—a hand Cook kind of looks like he’d much prefer to also be clinging to the wall, and adds, ”If Gracie doesn’t mind?”  
  
Cook gives Gracie a look and she nods, letting go of his hand. He immediately wobbles and grabs onto the wall with both hands, but at least he’s laughing at himself so he’s a good sport about it.   
  
“Here,” David says, halting in front of Cook since he isn’t moving anymore. He holds his hands out and wiggles his fingers, clearly gesturing for Cook to take them. Cook looks at him like he’s crazy, and David flushes red but says again, “Here! Take my hands. You can’t learn to skate if you’re holding onto the wall. No, um, offense.”  
  
Cook grins wryly and says, “You know, I have heard this before. Didn’t really go for it then either,” but he’s lifting one hand and David smiles brightly when he takes it in his own hand. Very awkwardly—and they actually stumble and accidentally slide out onto the ice about three feet when Cook tries to take his other hand off the wall—David somehow manages to get both of Cook’s hands in his own, and pushes back determinedly so that Cook has no choice but to move with him, his skates sliding along the ice.  
  
They laugh—half in amusement, and half in terror, David thinks, in Cook’s case—during the whole predicament, and Gracie watches with concerned eyes. “You’re doing great, Uncle Dave!” she yells, and someone else skating past gives them a thumbs up like he remembers learning to skate on the ice himself and is wishing Cook good luck.  
  
Cook says something under his breath that is really not polite at all.  
  
David makes a face and says, “Okay, stop trying to walk—“ and proceeds to try and teach Cook how to ice skate while ignoring the fact that they’re sort of ice skating while holding hands, and that’s probably one of the number one things you do while trying to find a wife.  
  
Or, um, husband. Wife  _or_  husband, because either works, really.  
  
“Cook,” David asks, slowly, still pushing with his legs and pulling Cook along for the ride, just so he can get used to actually _moving_.  
  
“Yeah?” Cook says, staring down at his feet like they’re going to disappear any minute.  
  
“Do you, um, like Christmas?”  
  
Cook looks up at him, and then shrugs and nods his head towards Gracie, who’s falling a bit behind them to skate with what looks like a pair of siblings near her age. “We celebrate for the kids, I guess.”  
  
He doesn’t seem too terribly excited about it though, and David’s heart plummets in his chest as he says, “Oh.”  
  
“My birthday’s on the twentieth,” Cook adds, “so it’s always kind of sucked. It’s too close to Christmas to really do anything birthday-themed, you know? And you always get stiffed on presents—not that I care anymore, but it sucked when I was a kid.”  
  
“You were—“ David’s still stuck on the fact that Cook was born on the twentieth of December. It’s, okay, it’s not like a requirement, or anything, to be born in December as a Claus, but it’s like, a sign when you are? David thinks that’s why it was such a big deal that it be  _him_  who takes over the Santa job, and not Daniel, because David was born in December and Daniel was born in February. “I was born December twenty-eighth!” he finally gets out, because Cook is looking at him like he’s placed his life in the hands of a crazy person.  
  
“Really?” Cook asks, grinning suddenly. “So we have the same name, practically the same birthday, we hang out at the same bar...”  
  
“Well, I’ve only been there twice,” David points out.  
  
“You should come by Friday night. We’re, uh, doing a thing. Or Johns and Carly are. It’s supposed to be a surprise party but the dumbasses do the same thing every year, so it’s not much of a surprise.”  
  
David smiles and nods, “I, yes, definitely, I’ll be there!”  
  
Cook lets go of one hand eventually, so that he can start trying to skate without using David as his momentum, and he does really well for a few minutes, until David has to say, “Bend a little—you’re good at gliding, but you’re going to—Cook!”  
  
They’ve been practicing in the middle for about ten minutes now—Cook’s a little less scared of falling down, David thinks, which is a huge improvement, and he’s okay with sliding along the ice so long as he doesn’t have to do anything fancy—and the talking distracted him pretty well too. Unfortunately though, Cook thinks turning and stopping are both fancy, and David cringes as they slam into the wall.   
  
They crumble onto the ice, their skates pointing out and away from them, thankfully, and Cook starts laughing before David can chastise him. Gracie skates up behind them slowly, her eyes huge, and she asks, “Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Cook says, and starts trying to stand up and help David up at the same time.  
  
It mostly doesn’t work, um, at all.  
  
  
  
It’s somehow getting even colder, and when David walks into the bar on Friday night, Carly is bundled up in a jacket where she’s standing on the stage, fiddling with what looks like some old wires. The bar has been added to since the last he was there—there are more Christmas decorations everywhere, and the walls are lined with blinking lights. David’s even pretty sure he sees mistletoe up close to the stage, and makes a mental note to not go anywhere near it.  
  
“Archie!” Carly says, grinning. “Gimme a minute and I’ll get you something. These wires are—oh, hey,” she says, looking back at them as they seem to unravel by themselves.   
  
David smiles and says, “Do you need any help?” as he approaches her carefully.  
  
“Apparently not,” she says, shrugging, and then plugs something in.  _Jingle Bells_  starts coming through the speakers immediately and she grins. “I’ve been trying to get it to work all damn day!” She shakes her head and climbs down. “You’re here for the surprise party then?”  
  
“Um, I guess—but, well, Cook invited me? So I think he knows...” David replies hesitantly.  
  
Carly rolls her eyes, “Yeah, he always does. Bastard.”  
  
David finds himself singing along to the Christmas music, watching Carly and Mike as they both finish up decorating the bar. He even helps a little before the bell on the door chimes and Cook walks in, voice loud and startled, and he’s wiping his hands off on his jeans as he says, “It’s  _fucking_  snowing outside!”  
  
David immediately stops singing, clamping his mouth shut.   
  
Oops.  
  
“It’s  _what_?” Carly says, sounding disbelieving and eager all at once as she runs to the front of the bar.  
  
“It’s snowing, in L.A. Since when does it snow at the beginning of December in  _L.A._?” Cook asks nobody in particular, and then catches sight of David, who tries to keep the guilt from showing up on his face. He just grins at David though, and says, “Hey, Arch—ever build a snow fort?”  
  
Which, um,  _yes_.  
  
David and Cook start building their snow fort across from Mike and Carly in front of the bar—which they’ve totally locked the door to, because apparently snow is a valid reason for closing? It’s coming down pretty heavy, and David actually turns around at one point, to hum a verse, just because—because he wants it to keep snowing, he  _really_  does. And maybe that’s going to freak out all the weather people in the morning, but whatever, one night of weird weather isn’t going to hurt anybody, right?  
  
Cook starts the attack by narrowly missing Mike’s head with a snowball, and David ducks before grabbing one from his own pile—because there’s a certain knack to making snowballs—and throwing it so that it hits him square in the back. Cook says, “Yes!” and then throws another while ducking one from Carly—except it still hits him. David lets out a short peal of laughter at the surprised look on his face, and then grabs another snowball for throwing purposes.  
  
“Where’d you say you’re from again?” Cook asks, glancing at him after Mike’s hair mysteriously turns white.  
  
“Oh, um,” David starts, panicking. Where is he from again? Not the North Pole. Even though that’s the reason he’s so good at this—with Daniel for a little brother, David’s probably one of the best snow ball fighters in the world, and he’s not even very good at sports. To be fair though, he’s had a lot more practice than the others? But again, that’s because of the North Pole, and he can’t  _tell_  Cook that. “Utah?” he hazards, and then ducks out of the way of a flying snowball.  
  
“That’s it!” Carly yells after ten minutes, “partner switch time, I’m taking Archie.”  
  
David almost feels bad afterwards when they trudge back inside the bar and Cook shakes his legs, snow leaking out of his pants and drenching his socks. “I concede defeat,” Cook says, looking sadly down at his ankles as he peels off his wet boots, “and it’s freezing. Don’t you have a heater in here, Carls?”  
  
“I’ve never  _used_  it,” she says, but then goes around the bar and starts pushing things—presumably the heater. Cook walks over to the stage and sits down on the edge, lifting his feet.   
  
“Man,” he says, “I haven’t had a snowball fight like that since I was still in Oklahoma.”  
  
“Oklahoma?” David asks, blinking.  
  
“I moved up here a couple of years ago. Before that it was Tulsa, though.” He wiggles his toes and changes the subject by saying, “I think my feet are turning into prunes.” He looks up at David and grins. “Thanks, Archuleta. Did me a real favor there.”  
  
“Oh my Gosh,” David says, and then looks down at his own tennis shoes, “my feet are just as wet as yours are—“  
  
“So dry them out, c’mon,” Cook says, patting the spot on the stage next to him. Carly’s opened the door by now, and people are walking in—shivering from the cold, most of them bundled up in sweaters and jackets and laughing about the crazy weather.   
  
“If it’s okay?” David asks, and climbs up next to Cook, slowly pulling his shoes and socks off. They’re soaked, no doubt about it. That’s why they usually wear snow-shoes at home, or snow-boots even.  
  
“Yep,” Cook says, sounding pretty happy when Carly comes over and forces him to scoot down, which makes David scoot down too, but she gives Cook a beer and David a small glass of eggnog.  
  
“Dave, you gonna sing for us tonight?” she asks, seeming to stare really hard at Cook’s face. David almost wants to back away. Cook seems to notice too and he furrows his eyebrows and says, “Uh, sure. What are you—“  
  
“It’s a Christmas party, so you know what I mean.”  
  
Cook rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, alright.”  
  
“Oh, and,” Carly says, hopping off the stage, “look up.”   
  
She has a horribly mean no-good terrifying smile on her face, and David knows what’s going to be there when they look up, because he saw it earlier  _and didn’t think about it at all_  after coming back inside. He doesn’t look up, but he can practically feel Cook as he leans back and looks—and then lets out a bark of a laugh.  
  
“ _That’s_  why you made me move over instead of just sitting—fuck you, Smithson.”  
  
“Oh shut up, and—“ David doesn’t hear the rest of what she says because Cook turns and leans in and kisses him, cold fingers sliding up to hold his face. It happens so fast David can’t even flail and say something about  _totally don’t have to—_  or _the cheek works just fine!_  and it’s, what, they—really—he can’t—because he’s cold, but Cook is  _warm_ , and his mouth is warm and soft and his beard is totally fuzzy and kind of ticklish and then it’s gone, and David’s lips are still  _wet_  and he finds himself leaning forward, wanting it to keep going, please, can that just—keep going, um—  
  
He opens his eyes slowly, and realizes he closed them at the same time. Cook is back to arguing with Carly over something—songs? He’s—that was—“Um.”  
  
Cook glances back at him, and then slides a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, almost like he’s nervous. “Sorry, figured I’d do it quick so you didn’t have time to freak out on me.”  
  
“What?” David just shakes his head and says, “No, I—it was—fine.”  
  
 _Definitely fine_ , he thinks, even as Cook turns back around and says, “I am  _not_  singing  _Silent Night_.”  
  
David sort of sits still until somebody kicks him off the stage and Carly drags him over to the bar, rolling her eyes and saying, “It’s like pulling teeth with these guys, I swear.”  
  
David’s really listening, he is, it’s just, Cook is on stage, and he’s starting to talk. There’s a crowd in the bar now, and Cook seems to be made for this, laughing like he’s just as comfortable with a microphone in his hand as he is with a beer. “Alright, Carly wants me to sing some  _Christmas_  music, and I got cajoled into this one by Monty—so here’s a number you’ll all recognize.”  
  
David freezes as the music starts, a lone drum quickly joined by a guitar. No, that’s not—Cook is  _not_  singing what David thinks he is—  
  
“Santa baby, just slip a guitar under the tree... for me,” he sings, the rock cover suiting his voice really well, and  _oh gosh_ , David can feel his neck turning red as he keeps singing, every lyric getting worse and worse. “Been an awful good boy, Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight.”   
  
His mouth is obscenely close to the microphone.  
  
“Santa baby, a fifty-four convertible too, light blue. Yeah, I'll wait up for you dear.” David puts his head down on the bar. “Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.”  
  
“Hey,” Carly says, pushing at his arm, laughing, and when David looks up, Cook is looking at him, this stupid grin on his face like he’s about to start laughing in the middle of the song: “Think of all the fun I've missed; think of all the guys that I  _haven't_ kissed—next year I could be just as good, if you'd check off my Christmas list.”  
  
It’s the worst song that anyone could have ever written, and David’s pretty sure every inch of him is as red as his Santa suit back at home—the one he totally doesn’t wear unless he’s helping deliver presents because it’s  _so bright_. It’s not like Cook even knows there’s technically a (Santa) Claus in the room. And that he’s basically propositioning him. And, and—his eyes are all, dark and hooded, and his voice is all growly, and—  
  
“Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring—yeah, I don't mean on the phone, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight,” he keeps singing, looking at David the entire time, “yeah, hurry down the chimney tonight. Yeah, hurry, tonight,” he finishes, barely breathing the last word into the microphone, and yeah, David’s dead. He’d get up if he could, but he really can’t. He’s like, out of commission. That’s it, game over.  
  
Carly is laughing at him, and Mike claps him on the back and says, “I knew you were crushing on him, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”  
  
David would totally glare and deny that, he  _would_ , except Carly hits Mike for him and says, “Try to be a little louder, why don’t you?”  
  
Mike looks back at David and says, “Sorry, man. Hey, I heard you singing earlier, while we were hanging the tinsel—why don’t you jump on the stage when Dave’s done?  
  
“What?” David says, eyes going wide. “No, I—“  
  
“That’s actually a really good idea,” Carly says, and Mike smiles at her weirdly, and says, “Ah, the tone of surprise.”  
  
Carly rolls her eyes but lets Mike take her hand into his over the counter, and David almost feels awkward, like maybe he should leave and give them space or something. Carly talks to him though, trying to reassure him, “It’s okay. Mike and I’ll get up later too.”  
  
“But baby, it’s cold outside,” Mike croons, and Carly gives a particularly feminine laugh in response while playfully hitting him again. David pauses before she shakes her head and says, “Just anything you know all the words to. The guys can play pretty much all of the regular Christmas songs. And they will, or I’ll kick their asses.”  
  
“Um—“ and he wants to say no, because what if it like, blizzards or something, but in the end he loves music and there’s a _band_  that will  _play_  while he  _sings_.   
  
He still sort of panics when Carly gets on the stage after Cook finishes "Happy Christmas" and says, “And before Mike and I grace you with  _our_  voices,” (and a bunch of people yell approvingly), “Archie’s been coerced into singing something.”  
  
He flinches when Cook gives him a look, backing up but staying on the stage, his guitar plugged in like he’s going to keep playing—and David realizes he  _is_ , and oh. Okay.   
  
“Have you—I mean, um, "Last Christmas"? Is that okay?”  
  
Cook nods, and then grins, and David turns around at all the people looking up at him, and wow, it’s not like he doesn’t sing all the time, it’s just usually for... elves. And elves are very non-judgmental, so long as you’re singing Christmas music. Bar crowds aren’t exactly elves though.  
  
He breathes, and the music starts behind him, and he misses his first cue, but after that—after that it’s easy.  
  
  
  
David tugs on his sweater tighter as he heads out of the bar, probably a bit earlier than most people, but he isn’t used to staying up so late, and it’s kind of been one of those nights where lots of stuff happens and you’re just  _exhausted_. His shoes are still a little bit wet, but he deals with it as he goes outside. It’s still snowing—probably will for a while, he thinks, wincing.  
  
He steps in the snow and then looks at the footprint, before someone runs up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, surprised to see Cook there, blowing hot air into his other hand because he doesn’t have gloves. To be fair, he wouldn’t have known he’d be needing them. “You live close by?” Cook asks, and when David nods, he says, “Awesome, I’ll walk you.”  
  
“Oh, but—I mean, it’s cold, and—don’t you want to be getting home too?”  
  
Cook shrugs and starts walking in the direction David had been headed in, towards his apartment. “I think we’re in the same direction, man.”  
  
“Oh,” David says, biting his bottom lip, and then he jogs a couple of steps to catch up. “Thank you, then.”  
  
“No problem. This weather is crazy, huh? Snowing in L.A., Jesus,” Cook says, looking up and trying to catch some of it on his tongue.   
  
“Yeah,” David says, slowly, “crazy. Magic almost.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say  _magic_ , unless you saw Harry Potter somewhere...” Cook says, grinning.  
  
“No, I just meant, like, it’s Christmas.”  
  
Cook glances at him, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Not the biggest fan of the holiday, you know?”  
  
“Why?” David asks, frowning.  
  
“It’s just—crowded. Everybody’s so excited, maxing out credit cards; the stores are always full, people are asking for money on every street corner—not even talking about bums, I mean those Salvation Army guys—and all the kids start acting like brats, and then they get everything they want. It’s just... I don’t see what the big fuss is.”  
  
“When did you become such a cynic?” David grumbles, folding his arms over his chest.  
  
Cook stops, wincing. “Sorry, I just—Christmas was fun when I was kid. I mean, even ignoring the birthday crap, it was—you know we’d do the whole tree, fudge and eggnog. My mom even,” he laughs, seeming to recall it, “put up a cot in the living room so Santa Claus would take a nap, and carrots next to the cookies for the reindeer—“  
  
“Oh my gosh, like I—I mean, like Santa has time to take a  _nap_ —um, because of—it’s just, a lot of gifts to deliver, um.”  
  
Cook smiles funnily, and says, “Yeah. Anyway, in the morning there’d be all sorts of presents, but the cot would look slept in too, and the cookies would be gone, and the carrots were always gnawed—“  
  
“Gnawed?” David says, looking at Cook. “Reindeer eat carrots whole, I mean, if they’re good, fresh carrots—or, I mean, you hear, like in stories—I should be quiet.”  
  
Cook laughs at him, but he’s grinning brightly and says, “I’m not that big of a fan, anymore. But you know, I like that you like it. It’s nice. It kind of suits you.”  
  
David flushes red, and laughs a little bit ridiculously, but fumbles and says, “Why don’t you like it anymore?”  
  
Cook’s grin drops slowly, and he sighs, shaking his head, “It’s supposed to be one of those things you do with your family, you know? And it was great; it was basically the only day of the year my parents didn’t fight.”  
  
“Oh,” David says, quietly.  
  
“It just started to feel fake after a while.”  
  
“Um,” David finally says, after they’re quiet for a few minutes, and he stops in front of the gate that leads up into his apartment building. “This is my, uh, apartment.”  
  
“Cool,” Cook says, after a minute. “I’ll see you later then,” he says after an awkward pause, and David can see their breath in the air.  
  
“Mmhmm,” he nods, and turns to go inside the apartment, except Cook grabs his hand and he spins back around. “Cook?”  
  
“So I know there’s no mistletoe here, but would you mind if I kissed you goodnight, and maybe took you out to dinner tomorrow?”  
  
“No,” David says immediately, and before Cook can even think about misunderstanding that, he adds, “I mean, no, I don’t mind.”  
  
Cook gives him a funny little smile, and then leans in at the same time that David pushes up on his toes in his wet shoes, and grasps the front of Cook’s jacket in his hands, and presses his lips to Cook’s for the second time that night. Somehow, it’s even better without the mistletoe.

 

Their first date—or apparently second because Cook considers the snow ball fight and bar Christmas party the first date, because apparently  _that had been a date_ —goes really,  _really_  well. They go out to a really cool restaurant where you have to make your own pizza? And David’s shirt is ruined by the end of the date because it’s covered in cheese and tomato sauce, but Cook puts pepperoni on his in a way that makes it look like it’s smiling, and then leans over to kiss David where there’s sauce on the corner of his mouth (or so he said, David’s not entire sure he believes him, but he’s not entirely sure he cares either).  
  
The point is that it was fun, and it was ten thousand times better than any of the other dates David’s been on. They even spend some time afterwards talking about their families—Cook has two brothers and three step-sisters, and a bunch of nieces and nephews (which, big family! David loves big families!)—and jobs—Cook is in graphic design? When he’s not playing music anyway. David mentions how he works with kids, which is totally true if not explicitly true because Cook thinks he means he’s a  _child caretaker_  or something, when he’s actually more of a toy deliverer.   
  
David distracts him by leaning up and kissing him, and Cook doesn’t seem to mind too much, so it’s a win/win situation. And he talks about Daniel and Jazzy and Amber and Claudia, and Cook says he’d totally like to meet them which, um, is totally okay with David too, so. Not that David could take Cook to the North Pole, that’d sort of blow the whole “I’m Santa Claus!” thing out of the closet.  
  
“What size shoes?” Cook asks, looking back at him from the counter, and David snaps back to attention. Their third date, Cook insisted, should be bowling. David’s never actually gone bowling? The only version they have back at home is  _Elf Bowling_ , and you slide down a patch of ice and try to drag the elves down with you, which is fun, but, um, different, and this... this is totally not Elf Bowling.   
  
David hesitates before saying “Elevens?”  
  
Cook grabs the shoes and gives David a look that he can’t quite interpret, but he’s probably not supposed to get all, um, whatever, because of it anyway, so he just grabs his shoes and says, “Okay, how do we play?”  
  
“Pick out a ball, first,” Cook says, before sitting down and pulling off his sneakers to pull on the bowling shoes instead.   
  
David looks behind them at the rows and rows of colorful bowling balls, and tilts his head, before moving to pick up a red one. He promptly drops it. “That’s way too heavy!” he says, aghast, and looks back at Cook who is laughing.   
  
“Why don’t you start with a pink one, man? The red ones are like fourteen pounds; I don’t even use them.”  
  
David frowns and hesitantly picks up a pink bowling ball—it’s light, at least. “Alright,” Cook says, grabbing a green one. “This is payback for the ice skating. Watch me.” He holds the ball up, almost near his chin and cheek, and then looks at the dots on the floor. “You have to line yourself up, and then on your second step, or third, maybe, for you, start bringing the ball back—keep your eye on the pins though—then make sure you’re still lined up and let go of the ball. Sound good?”  
  
David nods, and then watches Cook go—the ball hits the ground smoothly and slides all the way down the aisle, and curves right before hitting the pins. They all go crashing around, and a big cartoon shows up on the monitor saying, “Strike! Woohoo!”  
  
David can totally do that, and he steps up, carefully lining himself along the dots on the floor. Cook nods at him, and so David starts forward, holding the ball up, and then swings. He lands hard on his butt, trying to copy the foot twist Cook had done, and the pink ball slams onto the ground with a loud  _thump_  before rolling backwards, away from the aisle altogether.   
  
Cook is laughing ridiculously from where he’s standing, and David hauls himself up and grabs the ball before it reaches him. “Oh my gosh, stop laughing!”  
  
“It’s just—the ball’s supposed to go in the  _other_  direction—“  
  
“I know!” David says hotly, and he’d totally stomp his foot if he was a kid, but he’s not, so he  _doesn’t_. He does turn around though, and thinks harder about what Cook had done—probably the foot thing was just for looks, or maybe Cook even tried to trip him up  _on purpose_ , David wouldn’t put it past him, because during the snowball fight he was totally all sneaky and stuff.   
  
He manages to get the ball like, in the lane this time, and it even stays relatively close to the middle until it swerves and goes into the side without knocking any pins down at all. The monitor yells, “Gutter! Gutter!” and David flushes red. Stupid monitor.  
  
Cook is smiling at him, and David huffs before grabbing his pink ball as it comes back out, and he goes back up to try it again, because you get two tries, at least. Or three in his case, but whatever. He gets another gutter ball, and throws his hands in the air and says, “This is impossible!”  
  
“This is hilarious,” Cook says, still smiling—and David thinks it might be a cross between amusement and, like, fondness.  
  
“It’s  _not_  funny,” David says, crossing his arms and sitting down.  
  
“Nah, it’s pretty funny. I mean, I was starting to think you didn’t have any bad qualities. But you, David Archuleta, are a  _sore loser_.”  
  
David opens his mouth, surprised, and says, “I am not!”  
  
“You really are. That is  _awesome_. And completely unexpected.”   
  
David plays the next two rounds in silence, until Cook threatens to go get, like,  _gutter stoppers_ , these things that the kids three aisles down are using, and no, David does not need gutter stoppers, okay, thanks, but no thanks, and he does figure it out like, eventually, and while he doesn’t get any strikes, he totally gets  _two spares_  by the end of the game. So, yeah, next time he’ll be able to give Cook a fair fight.   
  
“That was like practice,” he insists as they walk down the street, towards David’s apartment. “Next time I’ll probably even beat you.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Cook nods, grinning like he doesn’t believe David at all, “yeah, no, I’m sure you will, Arch.”  
  
“Oh my gosh!” David says, “You call me a sore loser but you’re like, a sore  _winner_.”  
  
Cook bursts out laughing. “I’m a sore winner? How can you be a sore winner? And I thought it was just practice anyway,” he adds, practically snickering as they come to a stop in front of David’s apartment building. It’s really not that late though, David thinks, the sky’s not even very dark yet. The sun is still setting somewhere behind too many tall buildings, and he bites his lip before asking, “So, um, Cook, I—my family has this old cocoa recipe.”  
  
Cook smiles, and says, “Like hot chocolate?”  
  
David flushes for some reason, but steadies himself and nods, “Yeah. Do you want to come up and try some?”  
  
Cook looks at him for a second, before he slips his hands into his pockets and says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”  
  
David gives him a relieved smile and then turns and digs out the key that lets you into the apartment building. He doesn’t really trust the elevator, and explains what happened last week with Miss Abdul and her pug while climbing the stairs instead, Cook trailing behind him with an amused look on his face. He’s only on the third floor anyway, so that’s alright. Cook stops short when David pushes open his door, and David nervously shuffles in the entryway before pushing off his shoes and saying, “Um, you can—sit down, or—“  
  
“You have some serious decorating going on,” Cook finally says, and jumps on one foot to pull off his boots before dropping them on the floor next to David’s sneakers. He walks into the living room, and David really doesn’t think it’s  _that_  bad. The Christmas tree is pretty big, true, and everything is kind of, um, sparkly and red and green and there’s a bowl of mini-candy canes on the table, but that’s totally it. When you turn out the lights you can’t see any of it at all, except the tree, maybe.  
  
Not that he’s—um, planning on turning out the lights.   
  
“Cocoa!” he says, and rushes back into the kitchenette area.  
  
Cook sits down on the sofa and looks at the pillow with the reindeer on it, and David can’t see his face; isn’t sure he wants to. He’s come to the conclusion that he really likes Cook, but Cook is still so... not anti-Christmas, but he just doesn’t get excited about it, and when David thinks about telling him the truth, it’s this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that maybe—maybe Cook won’t like that part of him.  
  
Maybe he won’t want to be with him, if David tells him he’s Santa Claus.  
  
“Is this hand-sewn?” Cook asks suddenly, holding it up as he turns around.  
  
“Oh,” David says, blinking. “Um, no, it’s just—“  _made with Christmas magic_.  
  
“It looks amazing,” Cook says, putting it back down carefully before pushing himself up off the couch, and comes over to stand next to David, leaning against the counter.  
  
“Can you grab two mugs from the cupboard?” David asks. Cook nods and grabs the candy-cane colored one for himself, and the one with the blonde dancing elf for David (it was a Christmas present from Brooke). David grabs the little red spoon he uses to stir, and then the cinnamon, and bends down a little so he can get closer and make sure it’s stirred just right.  
  
“Ridiculous,” he hears Cook murmur, and when he looks up curiously, Cook puts a hand on his cheek and tugs him up, and kisses him.  
  
“Mm,” David whines into it because  _oh, kissing_ , but at the same time, he’s supposed to be stirring the cocoa, and adding the... marshmallows, and... and Cook is sliding a hand down his back, and licking his way into David’s mouth at the same time, and then his thumb presses against the flat of his back, underneath his shirt, and David’s entire body shivers with it, and okay, so, they can do cocoa later.  
  
Cook presses up to him and David pushes back until their chests are touching, the buttons of David’s plaid button-up tangled in the cloth of Cook’s t-shirt. The edge of the counter digs into his back when Cook raises his hand, fingers pressing into skin and tugging David’s shirt up with them. Cook’s beard tickles against his chin, but David just hastens the kissing so that it’s harder, faster, and tickling really isn’t a problem anymore, doesn’t even bear thinking about. He lifts a hand and grips Cook’s shoulder tightly, like he’s trying to say  _please don’t move, don’t go anywhere_.  
  
David huffs when he pulls his mouth back, needing air to breathe, but Cook’s eyes are dark, and David feels hotter just looking at him. His fingers tighten into the cloth where he’s gripping and slowly, oh-so-slowly, Cook strays both of his hands downward, until David has to drop his forehead against Cook’s chest with his eyes closed. Cook’s palms spread flat over his butt, just this bare pressure muffled by David’s jeans before he says, “Gonna lift you up, ‘kay?”  
  
His voice is rough, raspy almost, and David doesn’t comprehend what he said until Cook hitches David up, sliding him onto the kitchen counter so that he’s sitting next to the mugs of cocoa, with Cook’s waist between his thighs. “Oh,” David breathes, “okay.” His voice breaks on the word and Cook chuckles with a smile before moving back in and kissing him again.  
  
It’s stupid, how quickly David’s started to feel like—like  _this_ , all hot and out of control. He can count on one hand the number of relationships he’s had in his life, and none of them have ever gone so  _fast_ , have made his heart beat so fast, so hard.   
  
“Jesus, Archie,” Cook murmurs against the damp skin of his throat, and David leans his head back, not even caring when there’s a loud  _thump_  of its impact against the cupboard. Cook’s hands have somehow slipped under his shirt and the bottom three buttons have popped open. His fingers were cold at first but seem warm now, smoothly stretching out against David’s stomach muscles, pressing and molding.   
  
“This isn’t what I meant when I invited you up,” David says, after a minute, Cook’s hand so high now that his thumb has just barely brushed David’s nipple.   
  
Cook pauses, and lets his hands slide back down and out from under David’s shirt. He shakes his head and leans up again, planting a kiss on David’s mouth before he says, “I know.” It’s sort of—said in that way that says  _we can stop if that’s what you’re going for_. David laughs quietly, almost shyly but not  _quite_  because he’s pulling a hand back from Cook’s shoulder and intentionally unsnapping his own jeans. He bites on his bottom lip as he drags the zipper down slowly. Cook is watching him, eyes dark, and David thinks that here, in this situation, you can’t  _be_  shy.  
  
Cook keeps watching him even as he places a hand on top of David’s. David groans and he’s not even being touched, just the _idea_  that’s it’s about to—he anchors his thighs by clenching them tightly around Cook’s waist, and lifts himself up just long enough that Cook can hook his fingers in the loops and drag them down. He’s straining against his boxer-briefs, and they’ve somehow gotten tighter than they were this morning when he put them on. Cook is the one who breathes harshly as he presses his forehead against David’s, and wraps his hand around David—and oh god, oh  _God_ , he cries out because it’s so good, it’s even better than when it’s just him, and he wants Cook to, oh God.  
  
“Wait, Cook, it’s—“ he half laughs, half moans, “Oh my gosh, we’re in the  _kitchen_.”  
  
Cook snorts at him, and pulls back, “Sofa? Or—“ he says, and twists his wrist like—and oh, oh, David shudders and can’t avoid the fact that his hips are stuttering, and his thighs pulling Cook closer to him every time he can’t control the way he jumps, “—you gonna deal with the fact that you’re about to get jacked off next to your cocoa supply?”  
  
“Oh—I—” David starts, voice almost muffled because Cook is jerking his hand too fast to concentrate on saying  _words_ , and David is so hard he’s not sure he wants to. His skin is hot, and his thigh muscles are starting to burn, but he can’t stop straining them with every tug of Cook’s hand. He drops a hand onto the counter next to him, trying to get some stability. He bites his bottom lip.  
  
Cook is watching him when he looks up, and David cries out as Cook’s hand slows, and then speeds up again. The friction of his palm is going to  _kill him_ , it’s so good, so good, he can’t—“Cook, please—“  
  
He chuckles—a deep, rough sound and says, “I get this might be awkward, but what do you think about ‘Dave’ while we’ve got our dicks out?” And it’s awful,  _awful_  because Cook leans in closer and his hand actually  _stops moving_ , just holding David still while he can’t stop vibrating, please, just, and Cook says, “David, come on,” and  _oh_ , oh, that’s—  
  
Cook doesn’t even have to slide his hand back up to the top, jerking lazily, because David is already coming, his face screwed up and his mouth wide open in a cry.  
  
He opens his eyes a few seconds later, still perched on the counter, his left hand twitching where he’s trying to hold himself up. Cook is smiling kind of—self-satisfiedly, at him, all like  _yeah, that’s my handiwork right there_  and David wants to roll his eyes but, um, he’d really just rather—  
  
“Okay,” he says, his voice cracking a bit, “sofa.”  
  
  
  
David laughs into his mug and has to put it down because he can't keep it steady enough while he's laughing. After what happened in the kitchen, and later on the sofa, he needs all the steadiness he can get. Except that Cook keeps telling funny stories and not giving David a chance to recover. Cook has his hands in the air, demonstrating quite effectively how big the very unhappy cat really was. “Andrew  _freaked out_ ,” Cook says, laughing at his own story, “and I think I probably still have a scar somewhere from that thing’s damn claws. It’s why I have a dog. They don’t scratch.”  
  
“Dublin, right?” He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Cook’s leaning against the couch, grinning.   
  
“Yeah.  _He_  is a big Christmas fan. I always buy him one of those huge bones—takes him all year to demolish it. I bet he’d love you. You should come over and meet him.”  
  
“Really?” David asks, looking at Cook hopefully.  
  
“You have to ask that?  _Yes_ , really, c’mon, Arch.”  
  
David smiles and takes a big drink from his cocoa to try and hide it.  
  
  
  
The next time they go out, it’s almost damp outside because it feels like it’s getting ready to rain. Cook is laughing at something David did, his arm thrown over David’s shoulders warmly as they walk down the crowded sidewalk. They’re going to a movie—they fought over which one, because David is of the opinion that anything above PG probably isn’t very good, and Cook thinks anything below PG-13 is lame. David is smiling, only a little bit embarrassed because Cook’s laughing in that  _I love you, man_  way that gives him all these goosebumps up his arms, and he maybe sort of really likes it.  
  
But David stops just before they turn the corner, as Cook says, “Hey, there’s the cinema—Arch?”  
  
David is looking across the street, at a woman sitting next to a building, knees tucked up to her chest with a ratty old jacket over her shoulders. David can see her t-shirt underneath is purple because there’s a big tear in the front, and she’s hunching as a man yells at her—the shopkeeper, David thinks, of the little store she’s sitting in front of. She gets up slowly and starts walking away, and Cook bumps his shoulder. “Archie, we going in?”  
  
“I—“ David says, and then gives Cook a look, and he doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to say, but Cook looks at him weirdly, and David doesn’t know what it means. “I’ll be right there, okay? Save me a seat.”  
  
He ducks through the crowd of people, and manages to jog across the street and grab the woman’s elbow just as the shopkeeper goes back inside. Her hair is dirty and knotted, and she looks up at him with a tired face, more wrinkles than there should be lining her face. “Hi,” he says, and she looks at him like he’s crazy.   
  
“What do you want?” she says, shuffling her feet, and David glances at the shop in front of them.   
  
“Can I—“ He shakes his head, and his chest hurts. “What’s your name?”  
  
They sit down on the sidewalk, and talk while cars drive past and people walk behind them. Her name is Maria, and she’s forty-seven years old. She has two little girls, and they’re her reason for breathing, even though she lost her job this last summer and hasn’t been able to find a place to live since she ran out of rent money.  
  
“Maria,” David says, smiling softly at her when she sighs, and says the plastic beaded bracelet she’s wearing was made by her youngest, Caitlyn, and she wishes she could buy them Christmas presents this year, “thank you.”  
  
“For what?” she says, laughing at him, like he’s said something funny.   
  
“For talking to me,” he says. “I mean, you could have told me to mind my own business.”  
  
“It’s alright. I haven’t really talked to anyone who wanted to listen in a long while.”  
  
After a minute, he stands up and says, “Come on.”  
  
“What?” she says back, blinking, but staggers up behind him and he pulls her into a store a couple of buildings down. He grabs a jacket and holds it up to her, and then puts it back and grabs a red one instead.  
  
“I think this one looks good on you,” he says, considering.   
  
“I can’t—“ she starts, shaking her head.  
  
“I’d listen to him. He’s pretty insistent when it comes to Christmas presents,” Cook says, coming up behind her, arms folded over his chest. He’s not smiling, and David winces—the movie’s probably started already, which means they’ve missed it.   
  
“Thank you,” she says, and pulls on the jacket, bundling up. Cook rips off the tag before David has a chance and says, “No problem.”  
  
David shakes his head while Cook goes to the register to pay, and says, “It’s just payment. You know, for your story.”  
  
Cook doesn’t say anything when David says goodbye, and they walk for a while, bypassing the cinema, before David hesitantly asks, “Cook?”  
  
“What was that?” Cook says, turning around with this look on his face. It’s not angry, but it’s—  
  
“She looked sad,” David says, because it’s the simple truth.   
  
Cook looks at him for a long time, before he gives a long sigh and says, “You can’t go buying jackets for every homeless woman you see in L.A., man.”  
  
And David  _gets_  that, he does, but—  
  
“I know. That’s what I have you for,” and then, “You didn’t have to pay for it.”  
  
Cook rolls his eyes and then laughs—laughs at himself, David thinks—and says, “Yeah, well, you looked sad.”  
  
  
  
  
Two days later and Cook is pushing open the door to his apartment with a somewhat nervous smile. He holds it open for David to step through before coming in himself. It’s nice, David thinks, with somewhat bare walls and a big, brown leather couch in the middle of the living room, with a big television in front of it. The best part though, he decides immediately, is the little black ball of fur that pounces on Cook’s ankles. “Hey Dubs,” Cook says, leaning down to grab the small dog that tries licking his hands even as they cradle him carefully.   
  
He looks at David and holds Dublin out, who keeps squirming excitedly, paws sliding through the air dangerously. David holds his hands out immediately as Cook says, “Dubs, meet Archie. Archie, this is Dublin.”  
  
“You’re a Scottish terrier,” David says, and holds Dublin to his chest, scratching him between the ears before he puts him back on the ground. Dublin hurriedly attacks Cook’s feet again, and David smiles stupidly at them.   
  
“Yeah,” Cook says, grinning. “It’s ironic, ‘cause Dublin is in Ireland. You get it? Carly loved it. Anyway, so, uh, this is the place.”  
  
“It’s nice,” David says sincerely. “You don’t have any Christmas decorations though,” he can’t help but add.  
  
“That is not true,” Cook says, shaking his head and points to the TV. There’s a stocking hanging from the edge of it, David realizes, and it reads  _Dublin_. David feels a smile break out across his face.  
  
“You got a stocking for Dublin?”  
  
“It was a gag gift,” someone who is definitely not Cook says, and David jumps before turning around.   
  
“Shut up, Andrew,” Cook says to the new-comer. David recognizes that name—Cook’s little brother? “And what the fuck are you even doing here?”  
  
“I’m just letting your boyfriend know he’s dating the fucking Grinch, jeez. And I needed your WiFi—you said you’d be out all night.” He gives David a sidelong glance, and David flushes at the words  _all night_.  
  
Cook hits Andrew in the arm and then turns and says, “Archie, this is my annoying little brother who breaks into my apartment on a regular basis.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you,” Andrew says, looking at him. David kind of feels like he’s being judged, somehow, and Cook hits Andrew in the arm again. Andrew ignores him and says, “I don’t break in. I have a key.”  
  
“That you made without permission.”  
  
“It’s still a key.”  
  
“Hello,” David says, eventually, but he’s not sure Andrew hears it. Dublin has given up on getting attention from either brother as well, and pads over to look up sadly at David. David, more than willing to let Cook and Andrew bicker, leans down and holds a hand out for Dublin to playfully chew on. He’s really soft, and yips loudly when David takes his hand away after a few minutes.  
  
“Alright,” Andrew says eventually, “Archie, don’t be too hard on him. His back acts up sometimes, it’s—“  
  
“Would you get the fuck out of my apartment?” Cook yells, and promptly kicks Andrew out, but he’s laughing while he does.  
  
David smiles awkwardly, and then says, “He seemed friendly?”  
  
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Cook shakes his head, and then nods to the sofa. “So, popcorn and the Discovery Channel?” Which David figures out twenty minutes later is code for popcorn-flavored mouths and not watching anything at all, but he’s totally okay with that because Cook’s hand is warm on his waist, and—  
  
And, um, well,  _he’s_  out all night, at least.  
  
  
  
Carly slides in next to David, and places a big red bag filled with frilly red paper on the table separating him and Cook. Cook carefully pushes his beer to the left so that she doesn’t knock it over and then says, “Early birthday present?”  
  
“I know, I wasn’t invited to the party this Tuesday—“  
  
Cook shrugs, “Sorry, family thing. I’m lucky they’re letting me bring Archie.”  
  
“Anyway,” she says, “it was too good to pass up, although it looks like you’ve met your Cindy Lou Who already.”  
  
“Why does everybody think I’m the Grinch?” Cook exclaims, leaning forward. “I don’t yell at kids or hate Christmas trees, Jesus.”   
  
David winces and smiles apologetically as Carly starts laughing. Cook digs into the red paper and pulls out a green hat—really, um, warm looking, with ear-covers and string to tie under your neck, and, um, with the Grinch’s face on it. There’s also the Grinch movie—the cartoon, not the Jim Carrey version. Cook rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”  
  
“You missed something,” Carly says, and Cook raises an eyebrow before he dumps the bag over and a pair of matching socks fall out.   
  
“And, Archie—“ Carly says, smiling, “here you go!” She gives him a small box, wrapped in candy-cane colored paper.   
  
“Oh my gosh,” David says, “you didn’t have to—“  
  
“Shut up and open it,” she says.  
  
He does, and then promptly shuts it again and pushes it away, “Um—“  
  
“What is it?” Cook asks, reaching to grab for it, and Carly is laughing really hard, and David says, “No! Don’t look!” except Cook totally is already, and is holding them out, and oh  _no_.  
  
“I like it,” Cook says, but David can tell he’s about to start laughing, and he reaches up to try and grab the silly red underwear—they have the words  _Santa Baby_  written across the butt, okay, that’s just—no.  
  
“David?”  
  
He looks up, blinking, at the curly-haired blonde hesitantly standing at the edge of their table. He doesn’t gape, exactly, except—“You didn’t just see that,” he says, as seriously as he possibly can, and Brooke’s eyes widen and she nods.  
  
Cook lets the underwear fall on the table and David shoves them back in the box before he says, “Um, Cook, this Brooke. She’s, um, a friend of mine?”  
  
Carly coughs and gets up from the table, still smiling, and says, “I better go help Mike with the bar, guys. Happy birthday to both of you though. Use your gifts wisely.” She seems to be looking at David when she says that last bit, and he can feel himself turning red behind the ears.   
  
“Who are you?” Brooke finally asks, and fills Carly’s newly vacated spot, looking right at Cook.  
  
Oh, no, that’s not happening.  
  
“David Cook,” Cook says, holding out a hand to shake in Brooke’s as he glances at David who interrupts as quickly as possible.  
  
“Brooke, this is Cook, he’s my boyfriend, and no interrogations!” he adds, giving her a sharp look, and he sees the questions die on her tongue before she can get them out. But really, she does not need to be interrogating Cook about his favorite, whatever, type of tinsel material.   
  
“I’m not going to interrogate him,” Brooke says, and she smiles politely, her Christmas hat drooping over her ears to hide the way they’re pointed at the tips. “But I have to say hello! You realize you’re an extremely lucky guy to have David here, right?”  
  
“Brooke,” David whines, but Cook laughs and says, “Yeah, he’s pretty terrific, I’ll admit it. I haven’t met any of his friends yet though.” He looks at David, and raises an eyebrow. David just shakes his head.   
  
“You will soon,” Brooke says, and David panics for a second when she continues, “—as soon as he brings you home to the Nor—“  
  
“To Utah!” David yells, and Cook gives him a funny look.  
  
“Yeah, uh,” Cook starts, and David, flustered, says, “Cook! Would you mind getting me a new eggnog? And Brooke? I’ll give you the money—“  
  
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll, uh, be right back,” Cook says, and he looks like he’s half-laughing as he climbs out of his seat and heads for the bar.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a hushed tone. Because he didn’t tell anybody to come, and he’s pretty sure he’s old enough by now that he doesn’t need to be  _checked up on_  or anything, and she  _almost blew his secret_.  
  
“David,” she says, slowly, like she’s trying to tell him two plus two equals four or something, “it’s the seventeenth. There’s only a week before Christmas.”  
  
And then it hits him, and he freezes, because  _oh_.  
  
There’s only a week until he has to become the actual Santa Claus.  
  
And get married.  
  
  
  
“Whatcha’ thinking about, Santa Claus?” Cook says, suddenly waving a hand in front of David’s head. The fry he was half-heartedly bringing up to his mouth drops from his hand and lands in the middle of a puddle of ketchup.   
  
“What?” David asks, heart pounding. “Oh, nothing, I just—nothing.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Cook mutters, and they sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes.   
  
David wants to tell him. He  _does_ , it’s just—how do you tell someone that you’re a presumed-mythical fairy tale character who has magic and needs to get married in order to keep  _being_  that presumed-mythical fairy tale character with magic. Christmas magic. The easy answer is that you just say it, and get it over with, but the problem with that is that he’s pretty sure Cook is going to hate him.  
  
“Alright, come on. I know something that’ll cheer you up,” Cook says, finally, and grabs David’s tray before tossing everything in the trash.  
  
“What?” David says, blinking but getting up to follow him out of the McDonalds anyway. Cook holds out his hand before they start walking, so David takes it, hesitantly—almost shyly, except it’s not that he thinks Cook might not really want to hold his hand, it’s because Cook might not want to any more after—after David tells him the truth. That he’s dating a Claus, a  _Santa Claus_.  
  
He’s woefully staring at the concrete as his sneakers and Cook’s boots come in and out of his direct vision, when they come to an abrupt stop and Cook has to tug on his arm to keep him from stumbling. “What, where—“ except he looks up, and freezes, his mouth dropping open.  
  
It’s a huge building, with walls made out of paneled glass so that you can see every single train, every baseball bat, every teddy bear and telescope and Barbie doll and trampoline and—“Oh my Gosh,” David says, “you brought me to a giant toy store.”  
  
“And,” Cook says, “thanks to Gracie and Gage, I am a veteran at this particular toy store, which is why I know that they have a fucking awesome Christmas section. It’s where me and my brothers bought our mom’s Christmas tree.”  
  
David scrunches his nose up at the thought of a plastic tree, but Cook laughs and pushes him inside the store.  
  
David ends up loading his arms up with Christmas stuff, and  _why is he even doing this_ , really, he has all the Christmas stuff he could ever possibly need. All he has to do is  _sing_. But he finds himself wanting to put decorations up around Cook’s apartment,  _with him_ , and he can’t do it magically because he hasn’t told Cook yet. He decides, somewhere between the teddy bears and the wreaths, that he’ll tell Cook tonight, after they put the little Christmas tree he forced Cook into buying up in his living room.  
  
It’ll be good, and easy, and perfect.  
  
  
David wakes up warm, half lying on top of Cook, curled into the couch where they’d—um, gotten distracted from Christmas decorating last night, because Cook wouldn’t stop trying to slip his hands up David’s sweater, and oh my Gosh, his fingers were cold but his mouth was warm on the back of David’s neck, so that was okay. And really, the Christmas decorating could _wait_. Or, well, it should have been able to. He winces as he notices for the first time that the room finished decorating itself sometime in the night. David really needs to learn how to stop humming in his sleep.  
  
The second thing he thinks about, and he curls in closer to Cook as he does, trying to soak in Cook’s warmth, is that he didn’t tell Cook a darn thing. He chickened out, or let himself pretend he was distracted, and kept saying  _after this, after this_. He can’t afford to  _do_  that anymore though.   
  
Dublin whines at the door, and yelps with big brown eyes, clearly wanting to go out.   
  
“Okay, boy,” he whispers, and climbs off of Cook carefully before slipping into a pair of sandals by the door and grabbing Dublin’s leash, hanging off the door handle.  
  
He leads the puppy outside, and sits down on the steps. It’s warm enough, somehow, that he doesn’t even need to be wearing a jacket. Dublin wags his tail when he’s done, and hops up on the steps next to him before running around in a circle crazily. David smiles slightly, and asks, “What would you do if your boyfriend told you he lives at the North Pole and delivers presents to children on Christmas Eve in a magic sleigh?”  
  
“Probably ask him why he’s awake. Clearly he’s still dreaming.”  
  
David jumps up and turns around with wide eyes. “Cook?”  
  
“Heard you leaving, figured I’d come keep you company.”  
  
“O-oh, I—“  
  
“Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s chilly out here.”  
  
David shakes his head, “You’re not wearing shoes.”  
  
Cook grins. “Would you imagine that? Looks like somebody stole my sandals.”  
  
When they get back, David closes his eyes and lets out a slow, even breath as Cook lets Dublin off his leash. He turns around. “Cook?”  
  
“Yeah? You hungry? I have, uh, Captain Crunch I think—“  
  
“Cook, I’m Santa Claus,” David says, quickly and without hesitating. His heart is pounding in his chest.   
  
Cook looks back at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you mean? Like—oh, you’re gonna go do the kids’ hospital thing again? Do I get to see you dressed up this time?”  
  
David shakes his head, “No, Cook, I’m  _really_  Santa Claus. I mean, this’ll be my first official year doing it alone, but I deliver gifts to children around the world every Christmas—“  
  
“David—“ Cook starts, taking a step towards him.  
  
“No, just—listen. Brooke? You met Brooke. She’s not an old friend, she’s an elf. I mean she’s a friend too, but she’s an  _elf_ , Cook. My entire family—I’m not from Utah, Cook. I live at North Pole, and my family has always lived at the North Pole. We’re Claus’s, and I’ve been wanting to tell you, I—Cook?”  
  
Cook is shaking his head, and he almost looks like he’s going to start—to start  _laughing_. Almost hopeful, David says, “Cook, I—“ before Cook puts a hand up, and David gets it.   
  
He looks at David, and the only laugh in his face is a self-deprecating one. It’s the type of laugh that makes David’s throat dry up, and he can’t say anything. “Archie,” Cook says, after a minute, “I have to get to work.”  
  
“Cook, please,” David starts, and he thinks he’s about to start crying, because his voice is—is shaking, and his heart is beating so fast and he just wants to shake his head and refuse; he wants—he wants—  
  
“David. I have to get to work,” Cook says, harder this time, and looking right at him. “I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the way he looks  _disappointed_  that makes David put on his shoes and leave, closing the door quietly behind him.   
  
At least he makes it home before he starts crying.

 

David’s pretty sure that, what with the whole telling Cook the truth backfiring horribly, he’s probably not expected at Cook’s birthday party anymore. But Beth—Cook’s mom—was the one who’d invited him, making Cook pass over the phone one night when they’d been watching an old episode of  _Friends_ , and—and he can’t just leave. He can’t just  _give up_ , no matter how stupid it probably is to show up on Cook’s mom’s front porch. He’s certainly not expecting everything to be... whatever, instantly fine.  
  
It was probably stupid to expect Cook to be okay with it right away. To—to even believe him, right away. For instance, if Cook told Archie that he was actually, um, well he knows Jack Frost—and Father Time—and the Easter Bunny—okay but, if Cook told Archie he was somebody he had not been saying he was—  
  
David sighs and rings the doorbell. He fiddles with the small box in his pocket, tiny and then and wrapped in plain blue paper. He’d made it almost a week ago, before Brooke had come and reminded him that he wasn’t going to be here, in L.A., forever.  
  
He almost begrudges her for that, but then he remembers Christmas, and—what will happen if he doesn’t come back with Cook? Is that it? No Christmas this year? David can’t—he can’t fly the sleigh on his own. He  _needs_  Cook. Without him... without a—a partner, someone to love, and cherish, and make Christmas cookies with, and fight over how much stuffing goes into the teddy bears, and whether they should get Thai or steak, and what channel the TV should be on, and feed popcorn to instead of watching it anyway—  
  
David won’t be able to get the sleigh off the ground.   
  
A woman opens the door, blonde hair tied back with an apron around her waist, and she says, “Hello?” before Gracie, looking like a princess in a pretty pink dress pushes past her and yells, “Archie!”  
  
“Hi,” David says, hugging her back when she jumps up to wrap her arms around his waist. She grabs his hand and says, “I want you to see cake Grandma made, come on.”  
  
“Archie—oh, you’re Dave’s boyfriend!” the taller one says, and smiles before shutting the door. Gracie keeps tugging on his arm even as he says, “Yeah, um—“  
  
“Dave’s out back on the barbeque with Stan, but by all means, check out the cake. Beth took ages on it. Just don’t let Grace stick her greedy little fingers in it.” This last bit is said to Gracie herself, who has the decency to huff and say, “I’m not eating Uncle Dave’s cake until  _after_  dinner, Mom, God.”  
  
“Excuse me?” she says, shaking her head, and then, “I’m Kendra, by the way, Adam’s wife, Grace and Gage’s mother.”  
  
“It’s nice to meet you—“ David says, or tries to, but Gracie finally succeeds in tugging him out of the room.   
  
“Look,” she says, stopping in front of the table. She doesn’t let go of his hand though, and says, very seriously, “only half is chocolate, so when it comes time to eat it, we have to get our pieces first or we’ll be stuck with vanilla.” The cake itself is amazing, with guitars, baseballs and a little black dog made out of frosting decorating the top. There’s even a green Grinch raised in the top corner, although it looks significantly less artistic than the rest, like it was a last-minute edition.  
  
“You don’t like vanilla?”  
  
“Please tell me you’re not a fan of vanilla,” she says.   
  
David’s not sure how to tell her he doesn’t like cake at all, but luckily someone else comes in the room right then: a boy, maybe a year older than Gracie, with a baggy t-shirt and a Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap on backwards. He grabs a soda out of the fridge, and then says, “Who are you?” while looking at David.  
  
“He’s Uncle Dave’s boyfriend,” Gracie says proudly, and then, “This is Gage, my big brother. He kind of looks like a tool, but he’s really nice.”  
  
“And you’re  _not_ ,” Gage says, rolling his eyes. “Did Uncle Andrew add the Grinch? It wasn’t there earlier. Perfect likeness though. Uncle Dave’s been pissed off all day.”  
  
“He has?” David asks, grimacing—partly at the fact that Cook is angry, and partly because  _oh my gosh_  that’s—really bad language for a ten-year-old.   
  
“Yeah, he didn’t even say he liked my hat,” Gage says, sounding put out.  
  
David knows they should probably go outside, with the rest of the family. It’s only polite to go and introduce himself, and to see Cook, but he’s nervous. What if Cook tells him to leave? What if nobody wants him here? What if—  
  
“Gage, Gracie, skedaddle.”  
  
“Uncle  _Dave_ ,” Gracie says, clearly unhappy, but Gage—older and apparently more attuned to faces that say  _get out of here because I’m about to have an important discussion with my boyfriend_ —just grabs her hand and pulls her out of the kitchen.   
  
Cook doesn’t say anything immediately, and David fumbles for something, anything, but comes up dry. He had a plan, at some point—to apologize, or explain, or  _something_.   
  
“Gage, um,” he says, finally, quietly, “said you were mad.”  
  
“He’s a smart kid. Jesus, Archie, it’s—what was that? I mean, was it the whole after-sex freak-out regret thing? Because I figured if that was going to be happening, it would’ve happened earlier.”  
  
“No, Cook, I—I really—“  
  
“Don’t fucking say it,” Cook says, and David stops, but Cook keeps going, “You think you’re  _Santa Claus_? How am I supposed to—I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?”  
  
“ _Believe_  me,” David yells, and then bites his lip. “You could believe me.”  
  
“Archie, you’re amazing, and fuck but you’d be perfect for the job, but there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. Okay? He doesn’t exist. Neither do the elves, or the North Pole—David, this is bullshit.”   
  
It’s quiet after that, David staring at the floor, trying not to cry, and Cook staring at the cake on the table. “Somebody added a Grinch,” Cook says, after a minute. “It’s like it’s a personality trait I can’t get away from.” He sighs and steps forward, tugging David closer and pulls him into his chest until he’s holding him tightly. David’s fingers tighten in his shirt, gripping like he can’t let go. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” Cook murmurs.  
  
“Gracie,” David says, quietly, “wrote me a letter.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“She asked if I could make her Dad better for Christmas,” David says, and it’s now, here, talking about what he can’t do, that he starts crying. “I’m so sorry, Cook, and I would—I  _would_ , but I don’t have that kind of magic. If I could—I would do anything, I promise, because I’m in love with you, and I just want you to believe in me, and if I could do that—if I could make your brother better, maybe you’d believe in me.”  
  
Cook doesn’t say anything, and David doesn’t look up. After a long minute, Cook pulls away—just enough to lean down and kiss David, which is—David leans up into it, kissing back, because it feels like it’s all he’s ever wanted,  _please_ , and he doesn’t care that he’s been crying and it’s probably gross and messy.  
  
"I just want you to believe in me," David says, when they break apart, and he brings a hand up to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.  
  
“Does this mean you’re gonna grow a fluffy white beard on me?” Cook asks, just... smiling a little, like he’s not sure why he’s giving in, but he is. And David can’t stop  _crying_ , because Cook—Cook is choosing to—  
  
“No,” David says, shaking his head, “that’s your job,” and then he pushes up on his toes and kisses Cook again, because it feels good, and safe, and warm, and  _he can_.  
  
  
  
David thanks Beth about a hundred times before Cook finally drags him out of the house. David looks at him, and the way his new necklace slides against his throat, metal guitar curving around the chain. David had wanted to give him something that had nothing to do with Christmas, but still—mattered.   
  
He thinks Cook liked it.  
  
They go back to David’s apartment, because Andrew gave Cook a heads up that he’d be crashing at his place tonight, when he left Beth’s. David pushes through the door and then turns around, and doesn’t even have time to take off his coat before Cook is slipping his hands around David’s waist, tugging his shirt up and kissing at his mouth, his neck, his shoulders.   
  
They have to stop to pull out the bed, but they just fall on top of it afterwards, their clothes strewn in a trail from the door to the bottom corner, and David just keeps laughing until Cook distracts him.  
  
Afterwards, they’re both hot and sweaty—even so, David pulls the sheets up to at least cover his waist and laughs at the look Cook gives him. “Cute,” Cook says, and then adds, “You’d be even cuter with those shorts Carly got you—where’d you put them?”  
  
“No, Cook,” David says, and he doesn’t even blush, because, just, no.  
  
Cook sighs and leans back, before putting a hand on David’s elbow to guide him into an embrace. “So this might be crazy,” Cook says, “but I’m in love with you.”  
  
David gives out a long, shuddering breath, and squeezes his eyes shut as he curls in tighter to Cook, nodding his head and saying, “Oh, good, because so am I.”  
  
Cook runs a hand over his waist, and gives a funny chuckle before saying, “Wow, Archuleta, you’re in love with yourself? Who would have guessed—“  
  
“Cook!” David yells, exasperated. “Stop ruining it! I mean I love you, and you know it!”  
  
Smugly, Cook grins down at him. “Yeah, I know it.”  
  
Oh my  _gosh_.  
  
  
  
“What the fuck?” Cook says, lurching forward in the middle of the night. David flails at the rude awakening and falls backward—because his head had been pillowed quite comfortably  _on Cook_.   
  
“What are you doing?“ David says, yawning, as he struggles to sit up.  
  
“I heard something,” Cook says, quieter, and swings his feet over the side of the mattress.   
  
David blinks and looks blearily around the room, and sees a replica of a small, glass elf on the floor by the window. “It’s okay,” David says, reaching up to grab Cook around the wrist, “sometimes I hum in my sleep, and my magic acts funny when I’m not actually concentrating on what I want to do with it.”  
  
Cook shushes at him, and says, “Not now, Archie, there’s somebody—“  
  
And Cook is actually right, there  _is_  somebody trying to break into his apartment through the window. David jumps backwards as someone pushes their head and shoulders through the window, and then sort of—falls inside with a roll. “Jesus Christ,” Cook yells, and then grabs the broom and picks it up like a baseball bat.  
  
“Oh my gosh, no, Cook, it’s Kris!”   
  
Kris, lying on the floor, is panting from his climb, and his green hat has fallen off his head, revealing his two pointy ears—at least, as soon as David fumbles against the wall and flips the light switch. “He’s an elf!”  
  
“David,” another voice comes, and a set of hands seem to be struggling at the window. Panicking, David runs over and grabs them, and with effort, manages to pull Allison all the way in. They knock over a plate that had cookies from yesterday on it—his mom always bakes when she’s upset, but it had not helped him very much and he’d only eaten one of them—and it crashes onto the floor, breaking.  
  
“Seriously, Archie, what the fuck is going on?”  
  
“Oh,” Allison says, flipping her bright, red hair back, “I like him, David!”  
  
“He’s not a toy, Alli,” Kris mumbles, and then stands up to grab at Allison’s ear—which Archie appreciates, she has personal boundary issues. Not that he doesn’t love her; she’s like, one of his best friends. “And, uh, David, maybe—you should get dressed.”  
  
David promptly turns bright red, because all he has on is his boxers, and he didn’t even put on his pajamas on, and  _he’s practically naked in front of two of his_  elves. “Turn around!” he yells, and Allison and Kris automatically spin on their pointed boots, looking instead at the Christmas tree.  
  
David is pulling on his jeans as quickly as he can, and explains while he does: “Um, Cook, this is Kris, and Allison. They’re really good friends of mine, and they’re elves! What are you guys doing here though?”  
  
Allison says, without turning around, “Your father had a heart attack while he was checking the list for the second time. It’s—“  
  
“He’s run out of magic, David,” Kris says, “which means you have to get back home, check the list—twice—organize the map, and deliver all the gifts, and you only have three days.”  
  
Allison interrupts, “Which is why we came to get you. Brooke would’ve, but as head elf she’s been  _super busy_  moderating all the toy elves—somebody spilled paint  _all over_  the bear floor, it was horrible. Hope the kids don’t mind tie-dye...”  
  
“Someone  _what_?” Archie yelps, pulling on a sweater. Cook is still standing there in his boxers—like just staring at David. David throws his jeans at him. “Cook, get dressed, and—um, hold on, I’ll find you a jacket.” Because Cook hadn’t even been wearing one earlier, because it’s totally warm in L.A.  
  
He grabs at his red bag—the one stuffed in the bottom of his closet for emergency purposes—and sticks his arm in before he grasps at the material and pulls it out, a big blue parka that's perfect for Cook.   
  
Cook just shakes his head, “I’m not wearing that. Why do you even  _own_  something like that?”  
  
Archie pushes it into his hands anyway and says, “Cook, put it on or you’ll freeze before we even get there.”  
  
“ _Where_?”  
  
David stops grabbing things and blinks up at Cook, because—because that’s right, Cook is still new to all of this, he wouldn’t understand—he wouldn’t realize where they’re going. David bites his lip and then lets out a big smile, and leans up to kiss Cook, and says, “Cook, I want to take you to the North Pole.”  
  
“What?” Cook says, and David sighs and grabs his own jacket—a green one, and pulls it on, before grabbing his scarf and tossing it around his neck too. He bends down to pull on his shoes. “Kris, Alli,” he says, “did you guys bring the sleigh, or just—“  
  
“We brought the sleigh, but it started losing power somewhere around Manhattan—“  
  
Allison perks up, “Which was  _awesome_ , by the way, we met this actor—“  
  
“Allison, be quiet!” Kris hisses at her, and then clamps a hand around her mouth. “We brought the sleigh; you’re going to have to sing to help the reindeer lift off though.”  
  
“That’s okay. Cook—put on your boots!”   
  
Cook finally seems to get with the program and pulls on his boots, and then the parka David had pulled out of the red bag for him. David holds out his hand, and Cook takes it, like he’s accepted his fate to having no idea what’s going on and is just following David because it’s the only thing he can do.  
  
Which is better than flat-out refusing to go, so, David is okay with that.  
  
“Welcome to the family, by the way,” Allison says, jumping ahead of Cook as soon as David opens the front door. (He doesn’t climb out windows. Or at least not when there’s a perfectly good set of stairs that leads to the roof of this apartment building. Why Kris and Allison didn’t use them, he has no idea.) Allison holds a hand out for Cook to shake, but he just looks confused. He lifts a hand to shake hers though, and says, “Thanks?”  
  
Allison and Kris hurry up the stairs in front of them, because David is having to practically pull Cook up behind him. Cook can’t seem to take his eyes off their outfits—which, well, they are dressed like elves. It’s probably weird to see if you’re not used to it. A burst of chilly air hits them when they open the roof door, and Cook finally says, “You know that probably automatically locks, so don’t shut—“  
  
He stops talking, and David smiles proudly. The sleigh is grand, made with magic. The golden metal is shiny as if molded yesterday, the leather is fresh, and the red velvet is as intricately gorgeous as it is soft. The reindeer make soft noises, each of them stamping their hooves impatiently, and David abandons Cook to run up to Rudolph at the forefront. He’s missed her so much that he just wraps his arms around her neck and holds on even as she rubs her face against his.   
  
“Hey, girl,” he says, smiling happily. “I’ve missed you so much.” He looks at the other reindeer, “I’ve missed all of you. Have you been good?” And he runs a hand down Comet’s back, and up Prancer’s antlers—they all seem really happy to see him, and—  
  
“Archie,” Cook says, still standing with one foot propping the roof door open, “those are reindeer.”  
  
David gives him a furtive smile, and then sings, his voice carrying through the night air, “ _You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen, but do you recall, the most famous reindeer of all..._ ”  
  
“Holy shit,” Cook curses, and the door slams behind him when he takes a step forward. One of the closet reindeer to Cook takes a step toward him, looking at him carefully, and moving his head to catch his scent. His hooves knock against the ground.   
  
“That’s Blitzen,” David says. “You can pet him if you want, but we should probably get going.” Kris and Allison have already piled into the back of the sleigh, where the toys are kept on Christmas night when being delivered, leaving the front driving seat open for him and Cook.  
  
“Come on,” David says, grabbing Cook’s hand and pulling him to the sleigh.  
  
“If you tell me you’re planning on actually flying this thing—“  
  
David takes the reins, and says, “The reindeer fly. I just—use my magic so that they can.” He looks softly at Cook, and leans forward to kiss him even though Kris and Allison are probably watching. It’s just—this is a lot to take in, and Cook’s about to fly for the first time, and it’s a pretty scary experience, actually.  
  
Amazing, but definitely scary at first.  
  
He doesn’t have to sing for long—he repeats the first verse, and then goes on with, “ _Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose, and if you ever saw her, you would even say it glowed—_ ” and slowly, the reindeer start moving as he tightens the reins, and suddenly they’re running and leaping and flying off the roof, and Cook is cursing and holding onto David’s arm so tightly he thinks it might go numb.  
  
“It’s okay, Cook,” David says.  
  
“You’re Santa Claus,” Cook says back, and his eyes are big and wide. “You’re actually fucking Santa Claus.”  
  
“Um, yes?” David says, confused. “I thought you’d—Rudolph!”   
  
The reindeer collectively swerve to avoid hitting a building as Rudolph turns her head. They need more altitude, David thinks, and lets Cook hold onto him as he tightens the reins and they fly through the air—North, to the North Pole.  _Home_.  
  
As soon as the sleigh steadies, and Allison only falls out almost once—she keeps trying to look out over the edge and Kris has to pull her back—Cook’s grip on David’s arm loosens. He doesn’t let go though, David notices, and then laughs—“The last time you were holding onto me so tight was at the ice skating rink!”   
  
“You’re into the whole ‘new experiences’ thing, aren’t you?” Cook mutters back, and takes a peak over the edge before jerking back and says, “We’re really fucking high up.” Then he adds: “What am I talking about? This has to be a dream. Which means I’m still sleeping, in your bed. You’re probably singing in your sleep about reindeer, and sleighs, and  _fuck_ ,” Cook yells, and reaches up to rub at a spot on the back of his head where Allison just hit him with a wrapped box.   
  
“Stop being such a jerk,” she says, and David sends her a glare.  
  
“Allison.”  
  
“He’s freaking out! Like he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus or something, which is crazy sense he’s dating him!”  
  
David huffs and grabs Cook’s arm, tightening the hold—more for his own sake than Cook’s, even though he’s not sure why. Obviously—obviously Cook believes in him? He chose him, chose to be with him. “You do, don’t you?” he says, quietly enough that Cook is the only one who can hear him. “I mean, we’re in the sleigh, and you’ve met the reindeer, and—and elves, and—“  
  
“David, I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming,” Cook says, but he’s smiling—really wide, like he’s not sure he’s saying this, “but either way, I believe in  _you_. Not Santa Claus, necessarily, just—you. David Archuleta.”  
  
David flushes, and then says, “Oh, but, um. My name is actually David  _Claus_?”  
  
Cook looks at him for a long moment, and then shakes his head and says, “Such a little  _liar_.”  
  
“Oh my gosh!” David says, and wants to explain—but the reindeer swerve when he moves too fast and they all almost fall out and Cook yells and clings to him, like, trying to make sure he doesn’t fall out of the sleigh and, well. He should probably concentrate on flying.  
  
  
  
Cook surprisingly takes everything in pretty well, from the somewhat difficult landing—David hasn’t done it in a while, okay—to the overwhelming amount of snow, Christmas lights, elves running around in various elf-like outfits, the reindeer that look up at him when he trips getting out of the sleigh (and come over immediately to hunt for carrots in Cook’s pockets, which he takes surprisingly well, actually) to the lone penguin that stares at them where it’s wobbling down the main street walkway.   
  
“Penguins, seriously?”  
  
“I’ll take you penguin sledding later.”  
  
“Please tell me that’s not what it sounds like.”  
  
David holds his hand the entire time, and they shuffle through the snow towards the third house on the right, the big yellow one with a bunch of red lights, and when they get to the door, David says, “Just don’t let my Dad intimidate you,” and Cook nods (and again, does surprisingly well at not looking terrified, even though his grip on David’s hand gets even tighter).  
  
He pushes through the front door, and they take off their jackets quickly because it’s really warm inside the family room. The fireplace is on, radiating heat throughout the decorated house, and the smell of fresh fudge is coming from the kitchen. David almost wants to sidetrack, but he pulls Cook towards the parlor instead, where he’s sure his father is.   
  
His mother is there too, and when David pokes his head in, she jumps up from her armchair and yells, “Baby, you’re home!” She’s wrapping him up in her arms before he has a chance to do anything, and he hugs her back, letting go of Cook’s hand for the minute that it takes.  
  
“Hi, Mama,” he says, and then: “I’ve missed you.”  
  
“Of course you—who is this?” she says, looking at Cook finally, and then steps back, composing herself and running her hands down her front, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pretty yellow dress.  
  
“Mama—Dad—this is David Cook. He’s—“  
  
“The one, oh, David,” his mother says, and she almost looks like she’s going to cry before she pushes forward and wraps her hands around Cook’s shoulders too.  
  
“Er, hi,” Cook says. “It’s great to meet you.”  
  
“Your names are so confusing though!” she says, finally, pulling back.  
  
“You can call me Cook, or Dave,” Cook says, quickly, like he’s trying desperately not to be any type of difficult. David flushes at the thought of him trying to impress his parents, and then shakes his head. He wouldn’t want Beth to dislike him either.  
  
“Cook,” his father finally says, still sitting in his own armchair. He gets up, after a moment, and David sees Cook’s eyes widen—his Dad actually looks like the original Santa Claus, for the most part. His hair isn’t white, and his beard isn’t as long, and he’s not quite as big around the middle, but he definitely doesn’t need props to get the job done like David (who resorts to stuffing his suit with pillows when he has to be Santa). “Well, you’re not what I was expecting. You like Christmas?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Cook lies, “it’s my favorite holiday.”  
  
“Kids?”  
  
“Of course,” Cook agrees, and David gets the feeling he’d agree to “Poverty?” if his father asked that next.  
  
“He sings,” David says, and takes Cook’s hand again, wrapping their fingers together. “Like me.”  
  
His Dad looks at Cook for a long time, before finally nodding, and saying, “Why don’t you stay for dinner, son?”  
  
David laughs—because how is Cook supposed to get home? Obviously he’s staying for dinner. His mom chuckles, and his dad smiles, but Cook doesn’t laugh—he just looks more nervous.   
  
“Okay, um—how about I show around until then? You’ll love Daniel and Jazzy!”  
  
  
  
“Wait,” Claudia says, grabbing David’s arm and whispering, “you let Daniel take him to the flying grounds?”  
  
“Um, yes? Oh my gosh, they’ll be fine. And Cook wanted to go!” David says, surprised at her disbelief.  
  
Claudia huffs and says, “I realize you’re the big brother, but  _Daniel_  doesn’t think of it like that, so you’ve basically just fed your man to the wolves.”  
  
“Claudia, they’ll be fine! Cook liked the reindeer. Prancer actually tried sneaking in our room last night,” David admits. He had to explain to Cook that handing out too many carrots wasn’t always a good thing.  
  
“Oh, God, I hope they don’t take off with him. I haven’t even gotten to interrogate him yet.”  
  
David sighs, “No interrogations.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, because Daniel’s not—“  
  
Except right then, Cook and Daniel push through the doors, and the cold air swiftly comes through the room knocking a bunch of sparkles out into the air to hover around before dropping on top of David and Claudia, where they’re sitting and re-wrapping toys that came out looking funny. Cook grins and presses his cold hands against David’s face before he can jump back.  
  
“Did you guys have fun?” Claudia asks, and Daniel nods, “Oh yeah, Cook’s a natural.”  
  
“Thank you very much,” Cook bows melodramatically, and then, “I’ll be right back. I refused to pee in the snow.”  
  
As soon as he disappears down the hall, Daniel leans in and hisses, “ _He doesn’t know!_ ”  
  
David cringes, and says, “I was kind of hoping it might—work without having to—“  
  
“You don’t want to marry him?” Daniel says, and Claudia drops her box, “You haven’t  _told_  him!?”  
  
And then: “You know you won’t be able to get the sleigh in the air without his magic—without marrying him.”  
  
David glances down the hallway after Cook, and then says, “Yeah, I—I know. What if he doesn’t want to?”  
  
“David,” Claudia says, touching his hand, “he came to North Pole for you. Just give him the dumb ring.”  
  
  
  
It’s as they’re walking home from the toy factory—not that long of a walk, but the snow is so high that they’re having to practically waddle through it—when Cook says, “People keep looking at me funny.”  
  
“What do you mean?” David says, his fingers on the box in his pocket.  
  
“The elves. They act like they’ve got some big secret I’m not in on. Actually, Daniel was doing it too—shut up as soon as he realized I had no idea what he was talking about. And Amber too.” He’s looking at David suspiciously.   
  
David laughs awkwardly, and says, “Oh, um, it’s, um, probably just...”  
  
“Archie, I’m standing knee-deep in snow, wearing a scarf that I’m pretty sure your mom hand-knitted, surrounded by at least five reindeer and who the fuck knows how many elves. I’m pretty sure whatever it is you’re going to tell me right now, I’ll believe it. I’ve learned my lesson.” Cook is shaking his head, smiling at David like he’s being silly for being nervous or something.  
  
Whatever, David has  _every_  right to be nervous.   
  
“Seriously, Archie, just tell me what’s going on.”  
  
David takes a deep breath, and says, “I don’t have enough magic to power the sleigh.”  
  
The elves walking down the street next to them skid to a stop, as they slow themselves to a halt.  
  
“What? Arch, I’ve seen you do amazing stuff—you flew us here from L.A.!“  
  
“I mean—with the gifts. They’re too heavy. I could sing my heart out, and the reindeer can fly—but the sleigh is too heavy. We can’t get it off the ground,” he says, and a shuddering breath slips out of his lips.  
  
“Archie—I—what are you gonna do?”  
  
David tightens his fingers around the box in his pocket, and shakes his head, “It’s—“ He steels himself. “I need a Mrs. Claus.” He looks at Cook’s blank face, and edits, “or, well—a Mr. Claus. A partner.”  
  
Cook looks stunned. “You what?”  
  
David heart won’t stop trying to jam its way into his throat, beating so fast it almost hurts. “I, um,” he says, and starts to pull the box out before Cook takes a step back.  
  
“Is that—oh, shit. That’s why you came to L.A.” Cook looks hurt, and David moves forward, shaking his head and stretching out a hand to protest, except he keeps going: “Shit, that’s why when I—the first time I met you at Carly’s bar, you told me you needed a wife. God, I’m an idiot.”  
  
One of the elves standing behind Cook gasps.  
  
“Oh my gosh, Cook, no—do you honestly think that if I had a choice, I would’ve picked  _you_  as my Mrs. Claus?” He winces at the way it comes out, but it’s  _true_. “I mean—you’re a guy, for one, and you’re in a rock band, and you drink a lot, and you curse  _all the time_ , oh my gosh, and you— _your nick name is the Grinch_  because you hate Christmas! Choosing you doesn’t even make any sense!”  
  
“Then why the fuck am I here?” Cook yells, and David can see the elves flinching but he actually doesn’t care.   
  
David says, hotly, “Because I didn’t have a choice! I fell in love with you the second you kissed me for the first time, under the mistletoe. I couldn’t even imagine anybody else. I didn’t want to.”  
  
“God,” Cook says after a minute, and he shakes his head. “God, this is fucking ridiculous.”  
  
“What do you mean?” David asks, folding his arms and refusing to look away.  
  
Cook just looks up, towards the sky, and says, “That you’re—perfect. That you’re Santa Claus. That I’m in love with you. That I met you less than a month ago, and I’m gonna marry you.”  
  
David’s heart freezes, and his fingers where they’re gripping the ring so tightly in his pocket relax. “Really?”  
  
Cook steps forward, wobbling a little in the snow, and grabs David by the front of his red parka, pulling him in close to hold him. “ _Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun, it is to ride, in a one-horse open sleigh..._  Yeah, really.”   
  
David doesn’t even care that the elves all break out into applause, yells and happy cheers, because he’s pushing up and kissing Cook and it’s—he’s getting married to a man he loves, and saving Christmas to boot.   
  
It’s the best Christmas he’s ever had. 


End file.
